


hey brother, do you still believe in one another?

by mackdizzy



Series: Bounty Hunter AU [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eye Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Trauma, it's not that bad though, its really just two brothers who love eachother a whole lot, like its 8 pages of stan twins hurt comfort fluff fic guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: oh, if the sky comes falling down for you, there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do |||| intergalactic bounty-hunter AU. 8 pages of teeth rotting stan twins hurt-comfort, because I need nothing more in this world, apparently.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Bounty Hunter AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618777
Comments: 13
Kudos: 77





	hey brother, do you still believe in one another?

**Author's Note:**

> My first published one-shot, after I've done a lot of publishing and deleting; I think I'll keep this one up for good, though, I'm quite proud of it. Inspired by an rp I'm hashing out with @lemonpie , the entire love of my life. Also dedicated to those on the Fandom Fields discord server. You guys have made my week, seriously.
> 
> AU that Probably Has A Name But I Don't Know It in which when Mullet!Stan came back to see Paranoid!Ford, instead of fighting like idiots they made up, got Ford better, and are now intergalactic, multidimensional bounty hunters who love eachother a lot and care about eachother a lot. 
> 
> It's pretty simple, guys. 8 pages of fluff because my poor little heart needs it.
> 
> \--TRIGGER WARNINGS: This fic contains mild Eye Trauma/Horror and Mental Trauma/Anxiety attacks/Paranoia attacks. Brief Bill mentions, etc, etc, etc. Nothing too extreme. --
> 
> THERE IS NO ROMANCE/SHIPPING IN THIS FANFIC.

_First things first: shoes off. Ford hates the dirt._

It was surprisingly early when they returned to the room; barely breaching 4 in the afternoon. Apart from the trouble of finding a place to stay _(you thought hotels were hard to find in your own dimension?_ ), Stan and Ford Pines usually stayed out late enough anyway. There was evidence to gather, there were clues to collect, there were people to bring to safety; all of this denouncing the fact that there was usually also something to kill, of course.

It had been almost a year since they’d completed the portal and left that old house behind. Not left it behind for good, per say; they would come back every now and then to drop off old gear and pick up new stuff, make sure nothing bad had gotten in when they were away--sometimes they just needed a break from all of…this. But not always, not usually. Breaks were appreciated, but the work was exciting, dutiful, and never-ending. Breaks were best (and usually) taken at moments like these, when they had the time to spare; him fixing the weapons, Ford poured over one of his journals or a book he managed to find, both of them hashing over what they were going to do tomorrow over cheap interdimensional food (strawberry waffles tasted good in _any_ multiverse, his brother would always insist).

The routine wasn’t always as straightforward as that, but nothing the two of them did would ever _really_ be considered straightforward. There were bumps in the road; there had been bumps in the road all year, really, but after the first week in that house “alone” with his brother, that was sort of to be expected. They did what was natural; they worked them out. Because that’s what family did, and because there was nothing he’d rather have done.

Currently they were located--precisely, he noted, pulling out the pocket compass-- at -36.85271, -68.54629, 1.56. If they were back at Ground Zero, he’d note them somewhere in South America (Argentina, maybe, or Chile). Here in the moonshine dimension (which apparently had nothing to do with liquor, despite the fact that he felt drunk every time he looked out the window), the cliffsides remained, but that was about all; the grass was magenta and the sky was a deep purpley color, and the stars saturated the sky so richly, 24/7, that they were almost blinding. Stan would’ve been happy to sit by the windowsill and stare all night, but they had work to do---and besides, they never left the windows open.

Normally, they found absolutely any living space that felt hospitable and plopped down for the night--they were the opposite of picky--but after a couple of rough nights in a particularly rough part of the southern woods, he was _delighted_ to hear Ford say matter-of-factly that he had connections in the mountains, and that’s where they were headed. They’d spent the entire morning traveling, and 4 hoverbuses in plus a _lot_ of hiking later, he’d made the executive decision to check them in and call it a day. Unconfronted yet with the roofwalker who owned the place, someone who Ford had said it would be _crucial_ to talk to, they’d checked themselves in nonetheless and taken the elevator up 38 stories to the bedroom arrangement.

Kitchenette in the corner, desk and 2 chairs, television, bookshelf (empty). Attached bathroom and bedroom--another TV, 2 chests of drawers. And 2 beds. They were always given 2 beds, and they always started out arranging themselves across both, and yet both beds were never actually slept in.

Still: shoes off first, because Ford hated the dirt. Clutter and mess he was okay with (his brother was the _opposite_ of tidy), but never filth. He unlaced his boots and threw them casually by the door, hoping that wouldn’t annoy his brother too much. What happened next was calculated routine. He took the window bed, threw his massive bag down. Crossed to the window, locked it, pulled the shades tight, wrapped the cord around the lock to keep them shut. Repeated the process with the window in the sitting room. Moved to the door, locked it tight, pulled the door bolt. Checked the lock on the bathroom and then checked all four locks again, just for safety measures. Next he spot-checked the room, corner to corner; their reputation wasn’t massive, but it was still slightly dangerous, so every inch was scrubbed for cameras, bugs, and any geometrically-suspicious looking artwork. Finally, lights on, buzzing radiator off, windows weatherstripped for sound prevention, tea on the kettle.

Ford never really watched him do any of this; it was more of a safety-net set of activities than anything. Ford didn’t stare at the windows so much if he knew he’d locked them, didn’t direct so much erratic attention to the corners if he knew they’d been checked. So once everything was underway, tea included, he made his way into the bedroom, to find Ford cross-legged on his bed, poured over one of his journals, referring to the other two and a general mass of paper around him as he scribbled. Stan leaned on the doorframe and raised an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“You gonna spend any time in those beds sleeping?” He tried not to sound _too_ naggy, but he knew Ford’s sleep habits improved significantly if he wasn’t doing most of his work in the same place. He’d read that on a travel blog somewhere ...he thinks.

“Yes, mother.” Ford grumbled in return, but it was half-hearted, and he stood anyway, gathering the paper in a messy armful and carrying it to the desk anyway. Stan took the chance to stand behind his brother and peer over his shoulder, where his loops of neat script had begun filling the newest blank page of the journal.

“Shapeshifters, huh?” He noted, fingers drumming against the back of Ford’s chair. They’d only dealt with shapeshifters once or twice--most of them were nasty, selfish creatures, the conscientious ones interested only in self preservation. With such little regard for the species, he wondered how they populated, but he supposed that could be said for some lines of human lineage as well.

“I believe that is what we’re working with, yes. With all we’ve encountered, I’ve yet to do an official entry.”

He leaned further against the hard-backed chair Ford was situated in, squinting his eyes at his handwriting. His dyslexia had never made it easy to read any of the perfect, neat script Ford had started writing in around age eleven. He did really like the drawings, though; his brother was an amazing artist, something they’d never really known about until he’d started drawing the things they encountered. He let himself stare a bit and wonder at the ways Ford was even able to make something with no defined shape come alive on the page, and all his little frantic scribbles; messy with excitement, not panic. It was a nice sight, but Ford kept stopping to---well, at first he thought he was just brushing away his hair or fixing his glasses, but the 7th or 8th time in about two minutes, it finally set in.

“Hey, hey.” He said gently, nudging Ford’s shoulder. “Your eye ok?”

“Fine.” Came the simple response, which was Ford-speak for _No, but I’m totally busy doing my nerd shit and don’t want to be bothered._

Still, Stan could be good for one thing, and it was this. “Let me see.” He sounded a bit annoyed around the edges and chided himself for that, but Ford simply rolled his eyes at the ceiling; some things couldn’t be helped, and he was grateful it worked anyway when Ford spun awkwardly around in the seat and gave him a fixated stare.

“It’s swollen.” Stan said under his breath before even really getting a good look at it, because it was. Pretty red, too. “Look at my finger.” He said, directing his brother’s eye around. Motion was good, that was a start.

“Is it bleeding?” Ford asked, and Stan could tell he was trying to sound nonchalant and aloof, but he could hear a sad, wounded little tint in his voice, and he knew its source, and it might have been enough for him to lie about it if it was (as if he could ever lie to Ford), but luckily, it wasn’t. “No.” He said, gently. “It’s red, though.” And then he grabbed the chair from the desk across from the room and sat across from Ford, placing his hands on his lap, and Ford rolled his eyes again and went to face the journal, but Stan pawed at his arm, infuriated, so he eventually turned around to face him.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Ford mumbled, averting both eyes. “Stanley, I’d really like to get back to m--”

“Ford.” Just the slightest edge tinted his voice.

“It’s not fair.” Ford huffed back, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Stan could tell he was starting to get a little worked up, and he tilted his head, half in curiosity, half in concern. “It’s not fair that I have to be the one with a---full blown facial anxiety tracker.”

“You know I would’ve noticed anyway.” His voice tried to be gentle, not all-knowing or condescending, and the sentiment was enough to get Ford to crack a smile (albeit a wounded one), which was all he needed, really.

“It’s also quite unfair how you notice everything, Stanley.”

And that got _him_ to laugh, and then he extended a hand and Ford took it. He stroked his thumb along the backside of Ford’s hand and he felt all six of his fingers relax in his grasp, and once he had given it a minute, he tried again.

“What’s up?”

This time around there was more honesty. Ford looked at his hands for a moment before shutting his eyes tight, taking a shaky breath. When he spoke, it was very quiet. “Haven’t been sleeping.”

“Really? You’ve seemed pretty restful to me.” Inside he was cursing himself, though, guilt overflooding him. He should’ve been paying more attention, but Ford hadn’t asked, hadn’t brought this up, and he never wanted to seem too pressing. Still, Ford was right, he did notice everything, or at least...he was supposed to.

“Yes, well, my _body’s_ alright, but my mind---haven’t been dreaming right, keep going to the mindscape, I’m stuck, stuck with---with---stuck with-”

“Alright, alright.” He gave Ford’s hand a little squeeze, stopped him before he had to say it out loud. “That’s what I’m here for. Do you ...do you think it’s real?” He had to admit, the thought dried up his throat a little bit. What he’d _seen_ was pale in comparison to what he’d heard from Ford, but the scars didn’t lie, and neither did his own haunting memories of that twisted, inhumane laugh coming from Ford’s lips.

“...No.” Ford replied, but it was hesitant, and it took a moment. “No.” He said again, more resolutely. “Just--just me in my head. It’s getting worse, though, it’s not real REM.”

“How long has it been like this?”

“About two weeks?”

“Ford.” He groaned, his hand covering his eyes, another sharp wave of guilt consuming him. “Jesus Christ. Two weeks? Why didn’t you tell me, Ford?”

“You always worry so much.”

“That’s my _job_ , doofus.”

Ford didn’t say anything in response to that, so he stood, stretching his arms above his head, and yawned, throwing his coat onto his bed. “Alright. Executive decision. Showers and then we’re sleeping. That--” He pointed to whichever journal that was-- “Can wait for the morning.”

Ford’s eyes turned to the clock. “Stan, it’s barely 5.”

“Yeah, well, it’s 2 o’clock somewhere.” He yawned again, and this time Ford caught on and yawned back, flipping him off (with two fingers as per usual) lazily for making him catch it. He laughed, and Ford stood and sluggishly made his way towards the bathroom.

“Want me to come?”

“No, it’s alright. Thank you, though.”

He nodded and made his way into the bedroom off the sitting room, taking the tea off the kettle for when they were both out. Once he was done he fetched it and poured two glasses, making his way into the bedroom to see if Ford was done yet. He wasn’t, but he’d been expecting that, so he set both of the cups on the desk, set on his own bed, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He’d gotten quite good at just waiting--sorting through his thoughts, and though Ford was the list-maker, planning; these days, boredom was nonexistent, any downtime was appreciated. But he did start to worry slightly when 45 minutes later Ford was still in the bathroom, and he was about to go knock on the door when he heard a scream.

Ford’s scream.

He grabbed the gun out of his holster, changed the setting on it to the most powerful _stun_ setting; not enough to knock Ford dead, but if something was in his body that shouldn’t be there, it would be enough to get it out. He’d had to use it twice before, and neither time had been pretty, so he hoped Ford was in control enough for it not to be necessary.

The bathroom door was locked, but that wasn’t a problem. He considered getting the lock kit from his bag, but hearing another scream was enough for him to discard that idea; he kicked at the hinge-points to loosen everything and then shouldered it hard enough to unlodge the lock before kicking it open the rest of the way. Hotel doors were always shit, no matter the dimension.

There was blood all over the counter, and it stained in the shower as well. Ice filled his veins and he could almost feel his breath stop, but Ford was still alive, still in there, needing him. One hand on the gun he pushed the shower open with the other, shoulders trembling. “Ford?” He said, concern in his voice, but a slight edge too; a warning, to anyone else.

Ford _(Ford’s body?)_ was huddled in the corner, arms tight around his shoulders, his whole body trembling. Since he was undressed, it was easy to scan for the blood, and he was at least a little relieved to see that it was all coming from his eye--better for no blood at all, of course, but no self-decimation had occurred, and since that was usually Bill’s first step, it meant if there was possession, he was fighting it.

“Ford? Ford, are you with me?” He got down on his knees and reached out, safety out the window in lieu of his desperation to make things right, make things okay. Ford met his eyes, and another wave of relief--those eyes were so unmistakably his brothers, large and brown and mousy and right now they looked terrified, the left filled with tears, the right pouring blood. Those were Ford’s eyes, not anyone or anything else’s; so what mattered now was assistance, not violence, and he re-sheathed the gun, holding out both hands.

“Stan--Stan--” Ford gripped his sleeves and held on tight, tugging aimlessly, and he moved in closer, pulling his brother to his chest. It relieved him once again to see Ford clinging on; it meant he was processing things, he was still here, still recognizing him. “Stan, He’s--He’s coming, wants in, been too long without, Stan He’s angry, make me pay he wants me to pay Stan, I’m not safe you’re not safe watching, He’s watching, He’s--He’s--”

“Alright, Alright, Shh, shh--” There was blood in Ford’s hair from where he grabbed at it, blood on both hands, blood smeared on his face, and Stan just wanted to take him in his arms and gather him all up and make everything better for him. He held him close against his chest and whispered things into his hair as he ran his hands through it, down his back; useless, pitiful reassurances, _I’m here, it’s okay, he’s not real, I’m real, you’re safe,_ until Ford’s racing mind finally gave out and he collapsed flat against his chest, head by his heartbeat, silent, still.

“There we go.” He soothed softly, tilting Ford’s chin up. “Whatever your head’s been givin’ you for the past two weeks, it’s bullshit. It doesn’t matter. I matter, and I’m right here.” Ford was soft like putty in his arms in a way that showed he trusted him, which meant more to him in that moment than probably anything else could've. Ford’s eyes met his solidly for a moment and he very briefly smiled but then he was out again, somewhere baseless and mindless, just breathing softly against his chest, the fingers on his left hand twitching gently against his leg. He stepped back just for a moment and turned the shower setting into the bath setting, laying Ford back in the tub with his head propped against the rim.

At that point he stepped out, getting a bundle of fresh towels from under the counter. He grabbed a couple of the mouthwash glasses (so as not to get blood in the tub) and used them with the water and shitty hotel soap from the tub to clean off Ford’s hands and face, taking his time, trying not to be too rough with anything.

Eventually he set the soap down and doused the washcloth in water a few times, but he couldn’t even reach Ford’s eye before he felt six slim fingers close around his wrist. Gently he pulled back and caught Ford’s eyes, soft, and his smile, gentle.

“Hey.” Stan spoke, his voice barely audible above the dull running of the bathwater, beginning to work on Ford’s eye. His brother had since let go of his hand to let him work, but Stan had met his grasp with the other one, and rubbed his fingers alongside the back of Ford’s hand for the next few minutes as he worked to get him cleaned up, keeping his handiwork as gentle as possible. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Mmm.” Came Ford’s only response, half-cognizant, and he chuckled back, wringing out the last of the washcloths before brushing Ford’s messy curls away from his eyes.

“Alright, Brainiac. How about we hit the sack? I’m making sure you actually sleep tonight, idiot.” Ford nodded, half playfully half sleepily, and he stood, turned off the water, picked Ford up bridal style like he weighed nothing; he grumbled softly and fussed at first, and Stan was about to put him down when his brother apparently changed his mind, resting his head back against his chest. He set Ford down on his bed, and it only took a minute before he was sitting up, rubbing at his (good) eye sleepily. They both changed for bed, Ford climbing under the covers, and Stan sat on the edge of his bed but didn’t do anything further. “You want me here, or over there?”

A singular moment of silence, then Ford beckoned him over with two fingers. He wasn’t expecting anything less, not after tonight’s earlier confession, and frankly, he didn’t want anything less, so it was with no hesitance that he made his way over to the other bed; not by much, but big enough for two, and they’d slept in much more cramped spaces before. He laid on his back, one arm underneath Ford, the other one in his curls. It was a position that was nothing but familiar to them, albeit one he’d missed the past weeks, and he was happy to be giving something back to Ford for once; a night of good sleep was not arbitrary, not to them. Ford gently set his head on his chest, managed to get his arms over him and their legs tangled up in his sleep. He was cute when he slept, endearing when he mumbled math equations and excerpts about the paranormal.

It wasn’t long before he drifted off himself; day and night cycles didn’t exist here, so he set his alarm for a good solid 10 hours--way more than usual, but Ford needed it and they’d both earned it. He felt well-rested when it finally buzzed, and he was overjoyed to see Ford’s head still on his chest, his own chest still gently rising and falling, curly hair a mop around his head. He stirred gently when he heard the alarm, too, wiggling off Stan to rub at his eyes, and Stan placed a gentle kiss to his forehead before throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and stretching.

“Stanley?”

It was a very soft, very genuine call, and there was some caution as he turned his head, tilted it gently, furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes, Ford?”

“Thank you...for what you did last night.” Ford met his eyes. “I don’t think I say thank you enough, Stan.”

“‘S alright, Ford.” He said, walking around the bed and sitting on it next to him. Ford’s head lazily collapsed onto his shoulder. “I told you, that’s what I’m here for.”

But Ford wasn’t done. “And that I love you.” Their eyes met again, Ford’s at somewhat of a crossed angle from his head on his shoulder, and Ford’s hands went to his sleeves, gripping somewhat urgently. “I need you to know that, Stanley.”

He laughed slightly, pressing another soft kiss to his twin’s forehead. There was a minute of silence, just the rustling of the trees outside and the smell of last night’s forgotten tea in the air and the two twins who needed nobody else in the world cuddled close. Then Ford jumped to his feet, laughing.

“Race you down the stairs!”

“Seriously, Poindexter?” Stan stood too, brushing himself off. “You think you’re gonna beat _me_ in a _footrace_?”

“Never said footrace.” Ford laughed, hefting his travel bag with one shoulder and the portal gun with the other. But Stan always had an extra trick or two up his sleeve.

“Ford?”

“What?”

“Love ya’ too.” When Ford’s face softened, like he’d never needed to hear any other words in his life, Stan took the opportunity to snatch the gun from his now-relaxed hand and toss it on the bed, sprinting for the door.

“Last one to the bottom buys waffles!”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, I'd really appreciate a comment! It can be about literally anything. The breakfast you ate today. I love hearing from you guys! If you want to see anything else along the vein of this AU, please lmk!!


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